The door opens wide and Buffy steps out into the pale spring sunshine. "Angel," she says. "Angel. Oh, my God." Angel takes her hands in his as she stares into his eyes, down at their entwined fingers, taking in the beginnings of his California tan and the rolled back shirtsleeves, then back up to his face. "That...that prophesy," she breathes. "The Shan—?"
"Shanshu. Yeah." He smiles at her.
"Wow." She pulls her hands free, but only to slide them up to his shoulders, and then carefully cup his face, tilting it this way and that so the shadows—crisp, daytime shadows—dance across his features. Laughing a little roughly, she steps back and gestures. "Well, come on in, then. No, wait, not inside! There's a patio, we should— Do you drink...lemonade?"
They step inside first, so Angel can set down his pack in the hall while Buffy calls to someone in the kitchen. A red haired girl with a wide, warm smile, but dark circles under her eyes, appears, dishtowel in hand, and agrees to fetch them drinks.
"Now I know why you were so coy on the phone. 'Something happened! Not bad! Not bad, but! Could I come see you?'" She mocks his telephone voice, but her eyes glint. "You've never been out here before. To London a bunch of times, but not our little behind-the-scenes oasis. You like?"
"You called it Hobbiton on the phone."
"Oh, yeah! Old joke. Andrew. You saw that crazy old barn-in-a-hill on your way in? And the gardens will be really gorgeous in a few weeks. Giles' family designed most of them way back when, but all the kids work on them when they come in. It's really healing."
"I get that."
"Yeah. I went on a bit of a craze after—'06?—when Dawn and I came in from our big recruiting tour. Spent the whole winter with my nose buried in seed catalogues, and the whole summer grass stained and smelling like sheep shit."
He laughs obligingly, but with a note of bewilderment. So many changes. He stares out across the flower beds, then back at the woman at his side, and keeps on listening.
"There's even a night blooming one" —Angel is interested to see her blush— "and the kids are always shipping back weird seeds and cuttings for it to see if we can make them grow. Spike's out there all the time. It's hilarious. We got him an apron as a gag once, but..." She trails off and glances up at him, then down. A small, pensive line appears on her forehead.
Angel puts his hands in his pockets and says lightly, "Where is the mad bastard, anyway? I thought he'd be here at your elbow."
"Gig in Huanan he couldn't get out of. He's collecting Dawn and Tay in Rome and flying home this week."
"Gonna be a full house, huh?"
"Full home." She turns and impulsively grabs his hand again. "I'm glad you're here to help fill it." A dry little laugh. "Your timing, Angel...impeccable as ever."
Angel looks at the Slayer, the One-and-Always, mother of his fortune, woman of his dreams. Buffy's back is straight as it ever was, but her hair is white and wispy, her skin fragile and translucent, her steps slow. Death waits upon her; it takes no eldrich sense to see it. The Slayer blazes with unfathomable and ever accruing power—even now she could probably muster a fearsome fight, but the mortal frame is over-weary of the burden. She'll lay it by, before long.
When she does, will Spike go, too? Kiss his friends goodbye and stand in his night blooming garden and greet the dawn? Once, Angel might have answered yes, but he's not sure anymore. Spike's not so single-minded as he used to be.
"Timing. God, Buffy. Do you ever wonder... That is, has it been—"
She shushes him with a finger against his lips. "Maybe...maybe I always wanted orange trees. But, hey, oranges don't grow on this particular hunk o' dirt. Deal. Meanwhile, the crab apples are pretty beautiful. I'd have been an unforgivable idiot not to notice."
He breaks into an affectionate smile. "Your metaphors are improving. A bit."
"It's been good. He's been good. Whatever we are. He's just—he still drives me half crazy when he's even around, but—I couldn't have done it without him, Angel." Couldn't have missed you without him.
"That's a lie."
"Yes, that's a lie. I just want you to—"
"I love him, too. You should know that."
She huffs at him softly. "I do, you big schmoop."
Buffy reaches for Angel's hand, and, without looking down, he takes it.
Maybe he'll help the slayers, maybe he'll do something completely new. He's not sure yet. Maybe he'll take up gardening.
FIN
Timeline Note:
born 1727
vamped 1753
ensouled 1898
= 145 years of mayhem to be paid in full
= shanshu in 2043, when Buffy is 63ish
May 23, 2007
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